


The Milkman

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana Lopez is a good, strong, hard-working woman--but even good, strong, hard-working women have their weaknesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milkman

Title: The Milkman  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None; AU.  
Summary: Santana Lopez is a good, strong, hard-working woman--but even good, strong, hard-working women have their weaknesses.  
A/N: I hope I haven't stolen anybody's thunder by writing this, but between the release of Cell Block Tango and the various bits of fanart that have popped up in response...sort of had to be done.

  
Santana Lopez is a good woman. She keeps a clean house, attends church on a weekly basis, and provides her husband with nutritious meals and consistent trips to the grocery store. If an errand needs doing, Santana gets it done. If a shirt needs ironing, a dish needs sudsing, a dinner needs cooking, Santana sees to it that everything is accomplished in a timely manner. Santana Lopez is a good, strong, hard-working woman.

But even good, strong, hard-working women have their weaknesses—and Santana’s is particularly obscene.

She’s _supposed_ to feel guilty about it, and she supposes she does—under everything, under the layers of realization that remind her how a man’s touch has never felt _quite_ the way she wants, and how there has always been something about the shapely form of another woman’s hips that gets to her, way down deep, in a way she doesn’t like to admit. Under all of that, she _does_ feel slightly guilty, because her husband is a decent, hard-working man—one who fits with her, in his own way, even if it’s not the way her mother has always crowed over her father—and he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be cuckolded, much less to be caught unawares by the act in his own home—

But he _isn’t_ aware of it—not just yet, anyway—and Santana can’t help but think that _what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him_. It probably isn’t any more honest than what she’s been doing, but she chooses to believe it anyway. It helps.

Besides, there is no way she is giving this up. Not with the way Brittany makes her feel.

Brittany is like no one Santana has ever met, and if their old milkman hadn’t been forced into retirement by an especially harsh winter and a sprained hip, she probably never would have run into the woman at all. Women don’t wind up on delivery service terribly often; Brittany is the first she’s ever seen, much less opened her door to.

She supposes that was the first stroke of danger: Brittany _being_ a woman. Santana would never have invited a _man_ into the house on a frigid afternoon for coffee…or on a rainy one, for a quick sandwich…or a perfectly sunny one, for simple conversation. She would never have struck up a friendship with a man, especially one on route to his next job, the way she has with Brittany—but then, maybe she wouldn’t have done the same with any other woman, either. There’s something about Brittany that rings special in her ears, a bright chime that drags on and on, long after that easy smile and wisping blonde hair track back out her door again. Brittany is _different_ , and Santana feels as though she recognizes something there. Something she didn’t even know she was missing.

Whatever it is, Brittany must feel it, too, because no one else would be insane enough to risk what she did on that first strikingly warm summer day. Santana isn’t even sure how it started, how conversation between new friends can take so drastic a turn: a finger tracing lazily into the skin of her wrist, a tempting smile, a clean booted foot touching to her ankle beneath the kitchen table—and then Brittany was leaning in, no longer smiling quite so easily, and Santana was leaning in to meet her.

Brittany kissed like she spoke, all sunshine and astounding calm, her head angling to the left as Santana sank into the spread of possessive fingers across her jawline, the lick of a gentle tongue flickering upon her lips. Brittany kissed like Santana has never been kissed before or since, like she had all the time in the world for it. Like the pliant skin beneath her fingertips actually _belonged_ to her, like she held any right whatsoever to the skim of Santana’s cheekbone, or the delicate space beneath her earlobe, or the dimple set above her upper lip. Brittany kissed like she _owned_ everything—the house, the kitchen, the pretty blue sundress wavering hesitantly around Santana’s thighs as she stretched forward off her chair, opening her mouth in compliance to that perfect pink tongue.

No one kisses the way Brittany kissed her that afternoon, in her white collared shirt, dampened in the creases by June sweat. No one kisses the way Brittany did that day—not even her husband.

Maybe _especially_ not her husband.

It was the sort of thing that shouldn’t happen to a good Christian woman, and Santana knows she should have put a stop to it— _would_ have put a stop to it, if not for the twinkle in Brittany’s eyes as she leaned back and pattered her fingertips across the neatly embroidered placemat before her. “I’ll see you,” she had said softly, retrieving her hat from between the wicker bowl of apples and the green glass vase, and smiled again. A smile Santana should never have returned but for her dizziness, and the distraction of her thumb pressed insistently to her own bottom lip.

It was the sort of thing that shouldn’t happen to a hard-working wife even _once_ , but perhaps Santana isn’t so hard-working after all. Perhaps she is somewhat less _good_ than she believed, because her door is open to Brittany now, three weeks after that first event. Three weeks of visits that should, by custom, last mere moments, and have come to take up the whole of her afternoons. Three weeks of Brittany’s strong hands, easing up toned thighs, of Brittany’s breath on her lips, of Santana sinking down and down and down until she can’t honestly remember who it is she is _supposed_ to be come six that evening.

At six, he will be home. At six, she must have dinner prepared. At six, she is Santana Lopez, good, Christian, hard-working wife.

But for now…

The door is unlatched, the entryway marked off only by a smart screen door. The heat is particularly potent today—record highs, claims the weatherman in his jaunty tone, seeping through the grate in the kitchen radio—and Santana relishes every sparse breeze that works its way between cracks in the house. She stands beside the sink, methodically slicing carrots for the evening salad, trying to convince herself that she isn’t responsible for the thoughts racing through her head. They belong to someone else, she feels, just as the hands that skidded up the back of Brittany’s collared shirt last week belonged to a different woman entirely. Just as the thighs that tensed against immaculate couch cushions belonged to someone else, someone wild and thoroughly out of her mind, someone foolish enough to spread her legs for the _milkman_ — _milkwoman_ , she reminds herself, hardly daring to smirk at the knife working away on her cutting board. The milkwoman, and her marvelously evil tongue, which skates and dips the way no tongue ever should. The way Santana should never _think_ of, much less want. No, these thoughts—and those thighs, muscles rippling, sticky with expectation—must belong to someone else. Santana can’t recognize herself in them.

The door is unlatched, and by no mistake; when the familiar clink of bottle on bottle sounds out, Santana’s hands still. She forces herself to remain where she is, eyes firmly glued to her task. A good, strong wife, she thinks, does not leap with excitement at the arrival of the milkman like a common dog. A good, strong wife, she knows, gives at most a smile of recognition before turning back to her day. Tuning everything else out, because nothing else fits here, in this happy, organized little home.

The door is unlatched, and when it bangs heartily in its frame, Santana nearly lops off the tip of a finger in surprise. She draws in a breath, steadying herself, ears perked for the rap of clean white boots upon her tile floor. The swish of cloth, the ring of bottles being set with dangerous familiarity into the refrigerator. No milkman has any business at all, reaching into a woman’s refrigerator as if it were his own, but Brittany does. Brittany seems to have no boundaries whatsoever when it comes to things like this. Brittany doesn’t mind deviating from expectation.

Brittany is deviating even now, with every confident stride bringing her nearer to the sink, to Santana’s determined hands working across the board. She bows her head, preparing herself for what’s coming—for what comes every week, at this time. Her heart thunks beneath her dress, her eyes stinging with hope. It is not, she knows, the kind of feeling a woman _should_ have about anyone but her husband—

Long-fingered hands, so different from any man (or woman, somehow) Santana has ever known, slink around the curve of her waist and rest. Fingers pattern along her hipbones and hold, Brittany’s over-warm body bouncing lightly off her back. She is tall and willowy, like the girls Santana always used to jealously regard in ballet, long before she grew wise enough to abandon that dream entirely. Tall, and strong, and finely built, crafted from a graceful sort of wood that runs shiny and smooth where others would splinter. Brittany, with her cloudless blue eyes and her summer smile, all ivory skin and silken hair, the dead opposite in every way to Santana’s curvy frame and dark coloring. They make a pretty picture, she thinks hazily, catching a glimpse of wavering reflection in the windowpane. A pretty contrast, dark and light, like the turning of the moon at midnight.

This is wrong, but it’s the kind of wrong that she _knows_ and does not feel. The kind of wrong that skips through her mind like a stone, out of sight before she can grasp hold and make use of it. If she could do more than _remember_ —if she could out-and-out believe it, how improper this whole thing is—she could find it in herself to banish Brittany from this house, to phone in to request a replacement right away, before life spirals even further out of hand. She _could_ —

But she isn’t. Not this afternoon, anyway, with Brittany’s hips framing her own so prettily, Brittany’s chin settling gracefully upon the shoulder of her red dress. Brittany’s breath is hot, running rivulets down her neck, and her tone is calm when she asks, “Dinner?”

“Salad,” Santana replies, hearing the faint choke in her own voice. “He—I like to have a balance of color on the table.”

No _he_ today, she thinks wildly, as Brittany’s palms smooth out the wrinkles at her stomach, one matched on either side of her bellybutton. No _he_ on any day like this; it’s the only way she can keep sane, to imagine a world where _he_ does not exist, where this house belongs to her and her alone.

Her and Brittany, set against the world. How funny that would be.

She leans back reflexively, relaxing against Brittany’s chest. She is undeterred by the soft outline of breasts there, the clear womanhood that should be so off-putting, and isn’t. She can’t explain that—doesn’t want to. That is somehow far more complicated than an affair on its own could ever be.

Brittany turns her face into the exposed skin of her throat and waits for a moment, perfectly still. Her eyes, Santana can feel, are fixed upon the motion of the blade as it cuts into orange flesh and flies free again. Steady, silent but for the _chunk-clunk_ of metal meeting the cutting board. Santana swallows and focuses, moving carefully so as not to slip, and Brittany waits. Like this is a perfectly natural scene, and she is a perfectly natural woman, conventional in every way as she holds to her diligently working—

What? Santana hesitates, swallowing convulsively again. _Wife?_ How else could that sentence end, and _why_ is she even thinking this way to begin with?

She startles at the motion of Brittany’s hand—brisk, white, clean, like everything else on her person—as it wraps around her clenched fist. Wraps and holds, not guiding, not forcing, but waiting for Santana to press on. She shivers, curling her wrist again and again, feeling the support of Brittany’s sun-warmed skin upon her own as they slice. Reveling, somehow, in the press of Brittany’s hips against her backside, in the light breath Brittany sighs into her skin. A perfectly normal activity that has transformed somehow into anything but.

They finish, and Santana slips free of Brittany’s fingers to set the knife carefully aside. The carrots drop into a simple glass bowl; her hands trail beneath a spray of lukewarm water, clearing her of any proof of her work. If only, she thinks wryly, struggling not to shudder as Brittany’s lips caress a sliver of skin, everything were that simple.

“Are we done?” Brittany asks, giving a light nod to the bowl, and Santana trembles. This is _ridiculous_ ; she is not a woman who _trembles_ at anything. She is strong, and she is knowing, and she does everything she is meant to do of her own accord. No one makes Santana Lopez tremble, not even her own husband, not _ever_.

Still, she’s trembling now as she nods, as Brittany bears in nearer, until Santana imagines she can feel the thump of the other woman’s heart through the arch of her own back, as if they were skin to skin. Brittany’s hands flex against her middle, and her lips part, settled to Santana’s neck in a feather-light kiss. A kiss that should not, by any means, rock her to her core. Gentle, almost apologetic in nature, Brittany skims the kiss upward an inch and pauses there, applying a fraction more pressure. Santana’s head reclines, her eyes closing without her intent.

Brittany’s kisses are still astounding, she has learned, no matter where they fall. Bold and gentle at equal turns, she draws them along Santana’s skin now, mouth dipping and tracing where no mouth has been in a very long time, and Santana can’t help but reliquinsh herself. Under Brittany’s hands, she is more secure than she has any right to be; beneath Brittany’s capable mouth, pressing and releasing with rhythmless desire, she is _lost_. Her head angles involuntarily, exposing more skin, offering more control, and Brittany takes it without a word of thanks. Her kisses grow warmer, wetter, her lips parted to sigh and lick and inhale, and all the while, Santana can feel any resolve she might have had to the contrary slipping. Her fingers are reaching back around, digging past thick blonde hair to cradle the back of Brittany’s head and hold her close. An admission of want if ever there was one, and Santana knows she’s stepped off that precipice again. There will be no turning back this afternoon, not until Brittany is done with her.

And, judging by the aching slowness of her kisses, the absolute reverence she shows as her tongue slicks lightly up to the tendril of dark hair behind Santana’s ear, she isn’t planning on hurrying away anytime soon.

Her knees buckle as confident lips embrace the shell of her ear: tiny, careful sucks that send tremors down her spine. Brittany holds firmly to her waist, pressing her to the counter’s edge and easing in behind her: a constant reminder that she is there, that Santana is not alone, that Brittany is perfectly capable—and willing—to hold her up should she collapse right here and now. The thought is somehow more overwhelming than the tip of Brittany’s tongue as it traces the length of her lobe and draws it between her teeth, biting down with care. The idea that Brittany is _here for her_ , rather than simply _here_ for her is…indulgent. Patently ridiculous, and more than she should ever expect from something like this, but still, Santana can’t help but believe it.

Her nails scrape against Brittany’s scalp, her lips parted in an injured sort of sigh as Brittany exhales hot air into her ear and makes her way downward again. Shallow kisses, smooth and unbroken, punctuated by a thin stripe licked clean down to the arch of her collarbone. Santana’s eyelids flutter, her fingertips flexing in soft silk as Brittany tilts her head back with one gentle nudge and nips at the curve of shoulder. Her teeth catch and release the strap of her dress, her tongue brazen as it traces its edge along Santana’s shoulder blade, and it is only now—with one hand carefully curtaining her hair, parting it over her left shoulder to reveal the right completely—that Santana feels the first thrust of hips against her backside. The first genuine display of sheer _want_ —the same want she has felt in every kiss Brittany has ever bestowed upon her, the same want that echoes back from her own breast as she responds gladly—of the afternoon, and it sends a thrill of such deliciousness down her spine, it nearly hurts. To be _wanted_ so desperately by this woman is—

 _Too much_ , Santana wants to think, but can’t quite bring herself to fully believe. It doesn’t _feel_ like too much; it feels, in fact, like just enough, the kind of enough she hasn’t put faith in since before she was married. Desperate to clench the feeling and never let go, she grasps again at Brittany’s hair and struggles against the counter to turn.

Brittany’s head lifts from where searching lips are mouthing at the back of her neck, and her body sinks back for just a moment, just long enough to allow Santana room to swivel in her arms and meet her gaze. Her eyes are deeper than Santana can imagine, even in her dreams, and swim with hope, and want, and something else that Santana doesn’t dare put a name to. She touches one high cheekbone with the tip of her nail and skids across, down the plane of a long nose, flickering off the edge of lips flushed from use. Brittany watches her face as she explores, the way she always does, with absolute patience.

It’s that patience, she thinks, that really gets to her. Patience has never been Santana’s strong suit, and yet here is this woman—this deeply passionate, deeply intriguing woman—who seems to have it in spades. A woman who licks at her lips, whose eyes follow the pout of Santana’s mouth and the flutter of her eyelashes, and who does not act. Santana is touching, and learning, and this woman allows her the opportunity to do so without question, without pushing her hands aside and taking what she wants. It’s a new concept, and one that floods Santana with inexplicable desire; to have someone stand with her like this, touching and not touching, wanting and waiting, is _impossibly_ wonderful.

She surges up on her toes, faster than Brittany seems to expect, and takes the beautiful woman’s bottom lip between both of hers. She holds there for a moment, relishing the pressure of palms against her spine, hot through the thin fabric of her dress, and the taste that seems only to exist on Brittany. A taste like summer wind, and fresh apples, and laughter—things Santana doesn’t feel she gets enough of anywhere else. She kisses Brittany now, harder than she’d intended, desperate to invoke a little of that wind, that laughter, into her own skin. As if by sliding her tongue deep into Brittany’s mouth, provoking a thin, agreeable moan, she can bottle the taste far within herself and hide it there forever.

Brittany seems to take her cue now that Santana’s fingers are no longer probing along the contours of her face; her arms wrap fully around Santana, her body rushing to meet the push of Santana’s hips, the bend of her back. Her mouth is open and heavy, her tongue quivering as it threads around Santana’s and guides it safely back to its own home. Santana buffers it instinctively, unwilling to sit back and simply ride it out this time. Her hands grasp at Brittany’s collar, pulling her as close as is possible, a series of sighs and muffled moans passing between them as they crush together. _Passion_ , Santana decides, is the key element to Brittany’s place in her life. The passion that pushes a person to clutch wantonly at a woman’s back, fingers wound tight in thin, breezy fabric, parting her legs with one forceful thigh and angling up. Santana groans into the kiss and thrusts her hips once, testing the weight of Brittany there—the resilence, the give of sleek muscle as she tenses and relaxes. White pants, Santana thinks wryly, suit this so much better than Brittany’s employers likely realize.

She eases herself down upon Brittany’s thigh, lips parted in a surprised little _oh_ when Brittany shifts, thumbing her head back enough to return to the expanse of her throat. Brittany, whose breasts are round against Santana’s, whose tongue dips into the hollow at her collarbone and rests, lapping at the sweat beading on Santana’s skin. Brittany, who guides her thigh up to the juncture between Santana’s legs, unhurried, unbothered by the reckless motion Santana has adopted without meaning to. There’s just something _about_ this—about the warmth radiating up, beneath her dress, through damp underwear, about the power in Brittany’s limbs as they roll and arch and dance all around her. Hands that sweep into her hair, biceps bunching beneath a too-tight shirt—Santana’s fingers roam, working desperately to touch every inch, to sweep every cord and sinew into her memory before Brittany pulls away.

Brittany’s hands come down on the countertop hard, her mouth breathless and open as it strikes the top of her dress and pauses. Her shoulders roll forward, her thigh nudging until Santana is forced to stop riding it, until Santana finds herself pressed flush between Brittany’s groin and the counter. They hang there for a moment, silent and suspended, catching their breath—and then, deliberately, Brittany moves. A pump of her hips, a low groan that sends Santana’s blood crashing through her ears at a relentless velocity, and then again, again. Her fingers smooth to the slope of Santana’s spine, bent backwards uncomfortably against the counter’s edge, and lower, until she is pulling at Santana to meet her rocking pace. A slow, sweet tempo that makes Santana’s mouth go dry even as she feels the edge of her skirt skid up and up, obscenely high.

She tugs at Brittany’s collar and kisses her, half-mad with the heat between them. Her fingers stumble and stutter against the buttons, each one shiny and plastic, popping out of place soundlessly. Brittany clutches her waist, riding her out, grinding with such abandon that Santana’s eyes roll at the friction, at the rasp of Brittany’s breath on her lips. When the last button has succumbed, she shoves at the shirt, tearing at it, watching it drift out of focus and pool on the floor. Clean, white, and utterly out of place.

Brittany retreats long enough to grasp the edges of her undershirt and pull it over her head, casting it backward carelessly. Santana’s eyes widen at the curve of understated cleavage, spilling gently over the top of a crisp, pristine bra; Brittany has never come this far before, never disrobed in her presence. Brittany, with the taut muscles of her abdomen and the sleek spread of milky skin, is more beautiful than she knows what to do with.

She shouldn’t be surprised; everything about Brittany is so beautiful, so unmistakably _wrong_ in a way that feels entirely too right. Everything about Brittany, from the peaks of her nipples shying through thin cotton to the strong, sharp angles of her hips as they vanish beneath her belt, is _perfect_.

If Brittany is remotely self-conscious, she doesn’t show it when Santana stretches out a hand and cups one breast gently. It is nothing like touching herself, she finds, and somehow identical to it, all at the same time: the way Brittany bows into her palm, the instant draw of breath pulsing through, the angle of her head as she bites her lip. Santana eases the cloth aside, guiding the strap down the endless stretch of Brittany’s arm, and trails her fingers across the flesh again. Soft—softer than silk—and gently weighted; she settles in Santana’s hand nicely, the crest of her nipple digging into the fault lines traced into Santana’s skin. Lifeline, fate line, and everything in between—with this, she holds Brittany, thumb trailing across the pink nipple, and sighs with fascination at the trust reflected in blue eyes.

She squeezes once, then a little rougher, and Brittany seems to come to herself abruptly. She swings back into Santana’s arms, pinning her again with a kiss that is more manic than anything Santana has felt yet. Her hands sling across the base of Santana’s thighs, up, until she is cradling her by the bottom and heaving her skyward. Santana strikes the countertop lightly and leans back, head resounding off the cupboard door as Brittany bends to take her into a hot, damp mouth. She gasps, fisting the hair at the nape of Brittany’s neck, feeling her skin pebble and scorch beneath Brittany’s tongue. Even through fabric, the sensation is incredible, overwhelming; heat pools between her legs from the first stroke, and she thinks with dizzying fierceness that she must do this to Brittany in return, _must_ wrap her lips around one of those hard, rosy nipples, and suck until Brittany cries out with wonderment.

She _must_ , but Brittany doesn’t seem interested in switching roles just yet; her head bobs and dips from one breast to the other, dragging the strap of Santana’s dress down until skin is bared, until she is free to mouth at the hollow of her cleavage with childlike enthusiasm. Her free hand skips and darts, grasping the dark little place just behind Santana’s kneecap that sends her head rolling, her teeth sinking into her own lip. She is torrid, and fiercely beautiful, with her hair so mussed and her cheeks blushing, her eyes laughing as she eases Santana’s leg up and smiles into the curve of her breast.

Santana inhales, the sound of her moan biting off in the middle, because Brittany is looking at her with expectation, as though she will not go a step further until Santana insists, _Go on_. Brittany, who had her on her back last week on that couch, her long, lovely fingers put to such remarkable use, seems to need acceptance for this in a new way. Because this, Santana senses, is different, like Brittany’s shirt on her clean tile floor, like the sinful rub of Brittany’s nipples against her smooth, trembling stomach.

She nods, knowing she shouldn’t, knowing no _good, hard-working wife_ would, and Brittany relents an inch. Her hands—strong, work-roughened hands, as though she does more than simply deliver bottles of milk each week—glide along the line of Santana’s ankle, shin, the bump of her knee, pausing only to finger along the tiny nick of a scar above the left one. Exploring with a certain unrushed air that makes Santana feel sticky sweet at the very core, she runs her palms the length of one tan thigh, and then the other, taking her time to discover every freckle, every mishap with yesterday morning’s razor. Her nails scratch, tickling, and her fingers direct the hem of Santana’s dress higher with each passing second, until it is bunched around her waist, until all that is left is the clean cut of underwear.

She pauses, and smiles—a smile that looks so much like a smirk, it turns Santana’s blood flame-hot to look at it—and Santana can’t even bring herself to feel ashamed. She is wet, she knows, wetter than she’s ever been in her life—the cotton of her underwear is ruined, sticking to her skin uncomfortably, and from the knit of Brittany’s eyebrows, it is clear she knows _exactly_ whose fault it is. She slides the tip of one long finger down from the waistband, across the slightly rounded little rise, hesitating at the button of nerves that waits impatiently, just between lips Santana can already tell are flushed and swollen. She hesitates, not from anxiety, but with this overwhelmingly powerful calm, and Santana’s breath catches. To be touched by this woman—to be touched by _any_ woman—is not something she is used to, not something she should be allowed to _get_ used to. Brittany is the first, and Santana can’t imagine anyone else being the last. Her world has shrunk to a bare pinprick, revolving solely around Brittany and her broad shoulders and tight, tiny waist, and the strength in her hands as she boldly presses her index finger to those nerves, and Santana is shuddering from the first moment of it, because _how_ has she come to this point? To this place, reclining on her kitchen counter in the dead of summer, with the stunningly gorgeous milkwoman touching her where no one but her husband has ever touched—and even then, just barely—like she has all the time in the world to do so. How does a good wife _get_ here?

The thought is fleeting, exploding and retreating before she can grip to it too tightly, because Brittany is tracing south again, drawing a quick circle around the nerve bundle like she’s reminding herself to come back for it later. She cups between Santana’s legs, feeling for the opening that is so responsible for how soaked through she is, for how violently her muscles are trembling. Her knuckles brush the place once, and then push up, fingering gently through the fabric until Santana’s eyes knock shut and her hands clench into fists. She can feel Brittany watching her, curious and pleased, her left hand pushing around at Santana’s back to ease her to the very edge of the counter. She can feel the warmth of Brittany’s body as it slides between her legs, a lithe motion that could not be more planned if it were coming straight from a map, and the wet little strokes of Brittany’s mouth as it cuts a swath from nipple to stomach, from stomach to the constricting edge of underwear.

Brittany, she realizes with a startled flash, is kissing lower and lower, and as her eyes fly open, that mouth—that damned mouth, that sinful, talented mouth—closes over the crotch of her underwear. She feels Brittany lick experimentally at the seam, at the joint where everything meets in one overwhelmingly hot place, and she’s already making sounds she’s never heard herself make before. Shrill little gasping sounds, dark groans that seem so out of place in her bright, sunny kitchen—and Brittany just goes on, kissing a path left, teeth scraping gently at the leg of her underwear, at the skin on the other side. Kissing, her mouth open and damp, her tongue forging the path that no one has ever taken, and Santana swings back against the cupboards with a sound too inappropriate for a Christian woman to be making.

And still, Brittany goes on—Santana can actually _feel_ her grinning now, as her head turns and nods its way back to the front of her underwear. She’s on her knees on that clean tile floor, her hair brushed back from her eyes, hands wrapped around the underside of Santana’s thighs to spread them further. The material slides away, replaced by the kiss of cool air; she can feel herself stretch, easing open, sweat sticking her skin to the immaculate countertop, and for a blind second, Brittany simply leans back on her haunches and _looks_. A flush spreads across Santana’s chest, speeding up her neck, as this woman—this bold, brash woman who comes into _her_ house and kisses her like she _belongs_ here—just _looks_. Santana imagines what she must see: slick folds and beaded sweat, darkness and crimson, the close crop of wiry hair matching with smooth, simple skin. She imagines, and her cheeks go violently red at the notion, because who _looks_ at a place like that?

Brittany’s eyes float up her body, drinking in every last inch until she finds Santana’s gaze. And smiles that damn smile, the smile that says, _Hello, I have you. Hello, I want you. Hello, you_ need _me._

The smile is still flashing in her head when Brittany’s head dips down, her shoulders rolling forward again, and the first touch of tongue to skin is _electric_. Santana hears herself moan, feels her thighs try instinctively to push inward again, but Brittany holds fast. Her fingers trickle this way and that, soothingly, as her tongue flattens and spreads across the whole of Santana. Her mouth is open and easy, unhurried as ever as she embraces Santana, as she takes flushed lips between her own and suckles lightly, her fingers sweeping inward across the darkest part of Santana’s thighs. She sighs into the skin, and kisses—chaste, sweet kisses that make Santana’s head burn and buzz—a path up to the very mount of Santana and down again, stopping along the way to flick at that vibrating little bud with a relentlessly slow desire. Her tongue soars and shifts, tracing patterns and punctuating each one with a solid kiss, and Santana is squirming, _wriggling_ , moaning so loud, the neighbors must be able to hear by now.

Brittany is slow and gentle, but firm; she catches the throbbing little bundle between the scrape of her teeth and then sucks it, careful not to pull hard, into her hot mouth. And how _hot_ her mouth is: excruciatingly, wonderfully heated, growing more so with every catch and return. Santana buries her hands in long blonde hair and yanks, urging her nearer, growling under her breath when Brittany only hums into slick skin and offers another short lick.

Santana yanks again when Brittany’s tongue strikes a place that makes her tingle all the way to her toes, and Brittany obeys, keeping to it with light persistence. She laps at the place, nose bumping gently against Santana’s skin, hands holding her in place, and Santana cries out as her body winds itself tighter by the second. She scratches at Brittany’s scalp, begging for more contact, for more tongue, for more _everything_ —and Brittany gives it gladly, unselfishly, bending her face until her tongue is teasing at Santana’s most open, vulnerable spot, until her tongue is actually pushing _inside_ , a little at a time. Santana moans and spreads herself, accepting each plunge and thrust as Brittany begins to work faster, striving to sink in deeper, until Santana is all but bucking against her mouth. Release is close, she feels, so close, and it’s a second before she realizes she’s saying so out loud.

“So close, Britt, I’m—I’m—“

Begging, and moaning, and just about _praying_ on this counter as she grinds her hips to meet Brittany’s kiss, anticpating the stroke of Brittany’s tongue as it curls and twists, drinking her in—it’s too much, too much to bear. Her palms push solidly against the back of Brittany’s head, obsessed with the knowledge that, should Brittany pull away now in a sudden jolt of conscience, Santana will _die_.

She’s babbling—Brittany’s name over and over, nicknames, intimacies she shouldn’t be having with this woman or any at all—and Brittany is moaning into her skin, and then she feels the trace of long, knowing fingers replacing that tongue, gliding seamlessly into her body two at a time, and her spine snaps to attention. Her toes curl on the air, her lips parted in a howling sound that she has _definitely_ never heard before, and her hips buck and dance, hands holding Brittany flush to her without apology.

It’s the most she’s ever felt at one time, and when she finally comes down, Brittany is gamely licking at her still—gentle strokes, thin and careful not to overload her completely—cleaning her up. Making her _presentable_ again.

Santana presses a shaking hand between her breasts, willing her breath to calm, and tries not to feel anything at all when Brittany pushes herself to her feet. She tries to make her mind blank as Brittany adjusts her own bra and retrieves the undershirt from the table, the uniform shirt from the floor. She tries her best to feel nothing in the least when Brittany, half-buttoned and utterly disheveled in the most alluring way, stretches up to press a kiss that tastes like musk and heat and summer wind against her lips.

She tries, but Brittany’s kiss is open and wanting, her hands aware as they carefully maneuver her dress back into place, and her smile is beautiful. Sultry, and sexy, and so much like home that Santana’s heart throbs unpleasantly to look at her, even when Brittany’s fingers curl around her cheek and the pad of her thumb swipes a bead of moisture from just beside her nose.

Not sweat, she realizes belatedly, but a single teardrop. Brittany lightly brushes it aside and kisses the damp spot it leaves behind. Santana gulps for air.

There’s nothing to say, she knows—no amount of _thank you for your services_ could compare with what Brittany gives her on these visits. Nothing to say or do as Brittany finishes adjusting her hair and retrieves the hat and the metal carrier for her milk bottles from the table. Nothing to say or do as Brittany smiles, and winks, and walks without another word out the door. This is not a situation for a good, hard-working, Christian woman to be stuck in.

It's wrong, and she should feel guiltier than she does, but she can't help but think as Brittany's truck starts up outside that maybe the most wrong part of all of it is how she's still standing here. Still making dinner. Still in this kitchen, in this house, in this life, and not sitting in that passenger seat with her fingers tangled with Brittany's. Maybe, she thinks, it's the part that hurts the most.

Not that there's anything she can do about it. Not with her husband on his way.

Slowly, on trembling legs, Santana slides from the counter, tucks her ruined underwear into the bottom of the trash bin, and picks up the carving knife.  
  



End file.
